Statistically
by Blackrose Kitsune
Summary: Statistically, you're going to lose a patient. Statistically, some of them are going to die. As doctors, they understand that. It's just, no one expected 'statistically' to apply to him...


_**Standard Disclaimer:** House, MD and all related media (characters; plots etc...) are sole property of David Shore, the writers, and anyone else holding claim to the name inclucding FOX. This list does not include me, sadly enough, and I make no money from writing, so don't sue, ne? _

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**_Statistically_**

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Statistically… Out of all the patients they had treated, of all the patients they would still come to treat, statistically, some of them were going to die. They were doctors, not Gods — despite the beliefs of some of their cured patients — and so, death was an inevitable fact of life. And, as doctors, they knew this fact all-too-well. As doctors, they had enough training in medical school, and in the field, to gracefully accept the fact that they would not, _could not_, save every life laid before their practiced-hands. Yet, even in that knowledge — the one undeniable truth enamored forever into the minds of practitioners such as themselves — it made the truth no easier to bear.

Statistics were, after all, only numbers. At least, to them. A statistic wasn't a person. No, it was a cumulative study. A study, not a sentient being. It was a tactless, identity-stealing pronoun tacked on to the casualties of their practice. For, again, they could not save everyone. But of course, those that died left way for negligence and malpractice suits, so it was only natural that they be discredited as humans, and be re-dubbed as statistics.

_People leave a margin for error…  
__Statistics hold no liability._

As physicians, it was an all-too-practiced ability; that they were able to write off each death as a mere number amid millions. There was nothing human about the process: A lost patient equaled another corpse for the med students to practice on, and all that came out of it was another tick on a chart. Cold, calculated, and emotionless. Because that was how they had to be. It was almost part of the job description. It was a heavy price to pay, they'd admit, at times, but such was their career.

Only now, it was different.

This was another statistic, as far as statistics go. The circumstances of his death, as the autopsy had revealed, had come from a condition. A condition that was, and could have been, prevented by them. Yet, it had slipped through their hands. That was, almost in essence, the definition of a statistic to them: Someone they could have saved, but didn't.

Yet, this time… they couldn't bring themselves to simply write off the death as another statistic. Another tick mark on the chart. This time, they could not do it.

They couldn't believe it.

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Cuddy hadn't gotten much sleep that night, and now, in the early hours of the morning, her fatigue was clearly defined. Her dark hair, usually held back in a relatively conservative fashion, and mostly tamed, cascaded around her face wildly, the curled edges framing her tired face amid a sea of auburn frizz. Bags had begun to set themselves beneath her eyes, dulled with the longing for sleep. The clothes she wore, the same as from the day before, were in desperate need of changing, and she could have used a shower, herself.

She was tired, hadn't had a coffee since the late hours of the foregone evening, and her nerves were frayed to the last. A shower would definitely help. Yes. It would wake her up, sparing her the need to drown herself in coffee; it would make her look more presentable, and probably, she mused, less frightening to the night-staffed nurses still lingering in the building. Finally, it would erase the evidence; would completely hide all the telltale signs of her nightmare-born-into-reality. It would wash away the black mascara, once flowing in black rivulets down her cheeks.

Glancing down at her desktop, she sighed. The stark white paper sitting plainly before her helped the current situation little. There was a large creased fold running jaggedly through the center of it, she noticed mildly; probably the result of her having used it as a makeshift pillow in the earlier hours of that morning. Of course, there were words too. It was hospital paperwork, there was no way it could have been a _blank_ piece of paper.

_Unless, of course, you were House_, she mused cynically.

The thought of him alone drew another winded sigh out of her. She brought her hands to her face, pushing frayed hairs away and masterfully attempting to brush away the mascara stains. Pulling her hands away after a few subdued moments, she stared down at them. Black trails had laced themselves around her fingers, sliding down her palms in fading streaks. Now, the culprit had marked her twice.

She shook her head, desperately wishing for a coffee. Definitely a coffee. And, now that she think about it, an Advil. That would help. At least, it would help with her physical ailments. There was little to be done for her mental extremities.

But, why should she care, anyways? What was another dead body? It was just another statistic.

She sighed; a deep, shuddering breath that shook in unbidden emotion, full of tears that she would not — _could not _— allow herself to cry. There had been enough damage to begin with, she decided, glancing resolutely dry-eyed at the mascara streaks on her palms.

A slow knock, jarring to her clouded senses, pulled her attention from her hands to the office door. Before she had a chance to utter a hurried "Just a moment," granting herself time to find a tissue or some such item to dab quickly away at the black rivulets staining her cheeks, the door creaked quietly open on weathered hinges. She winced as it admitted one James Wilson into her office.

"Rough night?" He asked in a false-cheery tone as he let himself in. Noticing, in quick fashion, the telltale signs of just how rough a night it had been on her face, he averted his eyes from her respectfully.

She rummaged around one of her numerous desk drawers listlessly, fishing out a slightly dog-eared handkerchief and began the process of wiping herself off. "I've had better," she mumbled, her voice muffled by the thin slip of fabric she maneuvered around her eyes.

Wilson nodded knowingly and stepped further into the office. In his hands he carried two Styrofoam cups, both issuing a welcoming jet of steam from the black lids secured tightly around the lips of the cups. He crossed the threshold carefully, his feet shuffling thickly over the carpet as he approached her desk. "Coffee?" He offered, placing one cup atop the mass clutter gracing her usually clean desktop.

As she accepted the steaming cup, he sat himself down in the chair across from her, taking her in seriously. She was exhausted. Physically, mentally, emotionally exhausted. He was amazed she hadn't gone to pieces and stayed there. But, it was expected of her, he guessed. Being the Dean of Medicine — virtually the head of Princeton Plains-borough — meant being strong. And, no doubt about it, Lisa Cuddy was. But even she had her limits. He thought this might have just pushed them.

"You holding up okay?" He asked slowly, between a long drink of coffee. The steaming liquid seared as it slipped down his throat, scalding delicate tissue, but he paid no mind to the burning.

She lowered the coffee cup from her lips and set it before her. Her hands clenched around the Styrofoam base shakily, fingernails digging lightly into the impressionable material and leaving small perfectly manicured imprints in place. For a moment she was quiet, almost pensive. Then, casting a tired look towards Wilson, his deep brown eyes regarding her with friendly support, she let out a quiet breath, guilt etched deep into every syllable that sprang from her lips:

"I should have listened to him."

It's no less than he had expected really. A part of him had known that she would blame herself. They would all blame themselves in some small way. Or, at least he would blame himself. But, that didn't make the incident any of their faults. Much less hers alone.

"Don't say that," he rebuked quietly, his eyes never leaving her tired face. Every muscle in her body was tense and rigid; every nerve frayed and on end, no doubt. "How could you have known? How could any of us, for that matter?"

She shook her head, a mess of unkempt hair spilling around her face as she did so. Swatting loose strands from her eyes in annoyance she glanced doggedly down at her coffee cup and the idle clouds of steam issuing from the lid opening. Her mouth formed a thin, taught line, her eyebrows knitting together as though she were in deep thought.

"I should have realized—"

"He was always in pain, Cuddy. What would you have noticed?" Wilson cut across her gently.

She looked up at him, blue eyes blazing steely in emotion. "He said it was getting worse—I should have listened to him."

"You did what you could, Lisa," Wilson intoned softly, speaking to her as a friend rather than a colleague. "It's not your fault."

She bit her lip, looking away from Wilson's concerned gaze in defeat. Her hands, clenched tightly around the coffee cup before her, shook and she willed herself to stop; she had no right showing this kind of weakness. She heaved a sigh, her shoulders sagging as though bearing the weight of an insurmountable burden. After a moment of gnawing thoughtfully on her bottom lip and staring painful holes into her coffee, she glanced up again at the man opposite her desk.

"You weren't there, Wilson," she began tightly, her voice constrained, as though her higher mentality was fighting to keep her from speaking her mind despite her physical attempt to do so. "Stacy—House—The hospital—" Her voice faltered briefly, "It was our fault we missed the diagnosis…"

"Lisa, what where his symptoms? Leg pain?" Wilson shook his head, pausing a moment to take another long drink from his coffee. "You had no way of knowing what was wrong. Things just happen."

"Yeah," she laughed; a hollow, bitter laugh that resonated cruelly in the office air, thick with unwilled emotion. "Things. Just. Happen. Preventable things, Wilson! Preventable—" She stopped abruptly her voice cracking in emotion.

"Lisa…" he sighed, his tone mild, though the edges were laced with an agony so palpable that she had to glance up at him in wonderment. "We're all grieving here," he paused, taking a breath of resolve and passing a hand over his face and through his hair; easily as disheveled as his companion's. "But, you can't blame yourself."

"Of course I can," she snapped dryly, the would-be-final edge to her voice tapering into a bitter self-deprecating mumble. "I should have listened to him, but I didn't—"

"No," Wilson shook his head as he interrupted her thread. "Lisa, don't do this. Not now" — she thought she heard something like pleading in the way he had uttered it — "Don't go there."

"He suffered," she went on softly, almost reflectively, all but ignoring Wilson's input. "Cytokine poisoning caused multiple organ systems to deteriorate; the increase of potassium added to that would have invariably led to congestive heart failure if the cardiac incident—"

"Stop." Wilson soothed. His own voice had grown thick, bile building in the back of his throat; and the sudden turning of his stomach made him want to wretch, but he bit back the nauseous feeling that had stolen over him at Cuddy's impassioned monologue.

"I-I just—" she rasped, refusing to lose control of her emotions. Her eyes had misted, and she could feel them burning with the desire to open the floodgates, but she held back. Closing her eyes tightly she let out a deep breath. "I can't believe it."

"Who can?" Wilson asked dully, rubbing a tired eye with the back of his hand.

"I just… can't." With that said, she stood hastily, the loose papers littering her desktop, disturbed in their sudden upheaval, drifted lazily to the carpeted floor beneath her well-worn heels. Abandoning her coffee, and the last of the sanity it afforded her, she skirted her desk and crossed her office in a blur of motion.

"Hey!" Wilson protested, confused. "Wait a minute!" He scrambled rigidly from the stiff-backed chair he had occupied and scrambled after her frantically. Catching the door just before it closed itself thoroughly on him, he hurtled through and found himself staring after the rapidly disappearing silhouette of Cuddy, her heels clattering painfully as she made her way down the hall.

In her state of exhaustion and bereavement, the speed with which she had managed to maneuver herself down the hall surprised him greatly. He supposed it was the coffee. That had to have been it. Yes, because without it, he doubted she'd even be standing right now. He made a mental note never to offer her another coffee in such a state as this.

When he finally caught up with her, she was standing silently before the office door. He heaved a great sigh; a sigh mingled with relief, despair and once again, an overwhelming feeling of nausea.

"Lisa," he breathed quietly, placing a firm hand around her shoulder and giving her a reassuring squeeze. Reassuring that he wasn't going to let her dash off like that again, that is.

"I… I can't…" she whispered, her voice meek. Her resolve was crumbling steadily.

Crumbling just as steadily as the stark white paint chips that fell from the glass office door as the hospital janitor continued scraping away at what remained of the name: _"Greg" _The rest was gone, leaving idle hairline scratches in the otherwise untouched glass.

Her voice shook heavily; her body suddenly seized in similar tremors. "I… can't…" She bit her lip; quivering as she took another shaky breath. She _could not_ let herself go. No. She couldn't. _Stop_, she bereted herself. _Don't be stupid; you're stronger than this! _Her mind screamed. But… she wasn't… She couldn't…

"It's… just another statistic," she choked, the last bit of composure falling away as the last bit of his name crumbled in a mess of paint chips, to the floor. "It's just another… statistic… What's another… statistic?"

A fresh pool of tears welled at the corners of her eyes and she did little to restrain the floodgates; they burst open and she didn't even make an effort to keep the mascara from running.

Because, she knew. She really knew. "What was another statistic?"

Well…

It was everything.

XXxxxXX

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**_Author's Ramblings: _**This is only my second House fanfiction (the first is a WIP entitled Unmistaken), and I'm rather proud of it. The beginning at least. I think I managed to ruin Cuddy as a character by the end by throwing her completely OOC, but I couldn't say. Any input from you guys? The good, the bad, and the ugly all accepted here. Leave your name at the door, ne? 

Blackrose


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